Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance (10 page)

Ethan is worrying me. He has this euphoric look on his face like he was somewhere else, away in his mind. I don’t know what it is about the pottery workshop, but I love the smell, the texture and all the art that Alain created.

“You said that you’re looking for something, Mr…?”

“I’m Ethan Rivera and this is my friend Arwen West,” Ethan responds, back to his usual tone.

“Alain Valesco. I’m an art dealer, but I teach pottery part-time. How can I help you?”

I exhale, hoping to calm my speeding pulse. Ethan has this odd, tense expression on his face. Alain seems like a no-nonsense kind of guy and I’m prepared to show him what I have. The old anxiety kicks in, reminding me that my painting still needs a lot of work. Maybe Alain Valesco knows my father and within a couple of minutes I’ll have his address in my hand. This is surreal. I’m finally getting somewhere.
 

“Mr. Valesco, my friend here has a reproduction of a painting that was stolen years ago. A D’Orsay. She believes that there is another unknown original. We were wondering if you could tell us if you have ever seen it. We believe that the original is in Brussels.”

“Who did you say gave you my address, Mr. Rivera?” Alain asks with suspicion. Ethan gives him Antoine’s full name and I exhale when a small smile appears on his face.

“The old bastard. Yes, he’s right. I know a lot of people in this business. I presume that you want to show me that painting, Arwen?” he asks me, darting his eyes at my carefully wrapped package. I have to really change the way I look at my art if I want to get anywhere in life. In the space of a week I’m showing my precious painting to the third person. A couple of weeks ago I never thought that this was even possible. Anxiety still grips me tightly, but I’m fighting it. I’m on a new path in my life. Fear can become destructive. I take a deep breath and slowly unwrap the painting, my hands trembling. Ethan and Antoine both liked my work, so maybe Alain will too.

 
When the whole paper is off, I take a step backwards and look away, at the beautiful ceramic vases that stand on the floor.

“Magnificent reproduction, Arwen. I was expecting something minimalistic, maybe some missing pieces from Rembrandt’s era, but definitely nothing so deep and well developed. I remember the original really well. The owner was here only a couple of months ago.”

Chapter Thirteen

For a brief second I’m not sure if I have heard Alain correctly. I look at Ethan, forgetting about my precious painting and the pressure that I feel when my work is in front of people. Right in this moment there is something much more important than anxiety. Alain just said that he had seen the painting, here in his workshop.

“Are you sure? Was it here is Brussels?” Ethan asks before I have a chance to open my mouth.

“Yes, but the owner isn’t from around here. I have seen him a few times, always carrying this painting with him. I can’t believe that this is a reproduction. The detail is incredible. Have you painted this yourself?” he asks. I nod, not quite sure what to think. My father has been here, so I was right all along. He lives somewhere in the city. Alain continues his rant. “Then you are wasting yourself. One glance and I see it, amazing talent and ability to create something absolutely original.”

“She painted this from her memory,” Ethan mutters. Why do they have to fuss over me so much? It’s just a stupid painting.

“My God, the owner wouldn’t believe it if I showed him this. Seriously, girl, you need to show your work to the world.”

All right, I get it. I have been hiding my talent, but not everyone will like my work. My heart is pounding away and blood is rushing from my head. Alain is wrong about one thing: my father would hate it. He never thought that I had any real talent. I feel Ethan’s warm hand on my shoulder and his amber eyes are asking me if I’m all right. I nod silently, feeling like someone is squeezing my stomach slowly and painfully.

“Can you give us the address of the owner? We really want to talk to him,” I ask.

“He won’t sell it to you. I don’t know what’s up with this guy, but he seems obsessed. For many years I believed that all the paintings that represent D’Orsay’s lover were stolen until Pevez showed up with the original.”

“Pevez, the owner calls himself Pevez?

“Yes. I don’t know what his first name is, but I don’t have good news for you. Pevez doesn’t live in Brussels anymore,” he adds, looking at me with his heavy hazel eyes. I exhale, knowing that he can’t be talking about my father, unless he changed his name when he left France.

“Can you at least tell us how to find him?”

“Pevez and his wife moved from the address that I had. I’m not sure if they left Belgium for good or they just moved out of Brussels. He wasn’t particularly friendly, to be honest. He likes keeping his privacy.”

I can ask many questions to find out if Pevez is my father. Back in Saint-Malo he was still Rupert West. I guess I don’t know my family anymore. He would have never gotten rid of that painting. It’s a possibility that he changed his name, found a new woman and a new identity for himself. My heart hammers between my ribs in shock. How could he just disappear?

“So he was married? Well, then you probably know someone that might give us his current address? We really need to find this man and the painting,” Ethan says, pressing Alain.

I don’t want to believe that he moved on that fast. My parents had been arguing for as long as I could remember. They screamed that they hated each other. I watched as my mother threw things at him. Later on, Dad kept saying, “It’s your fault, Arwen, it’s because of you I became worthless. I wish I had another daughter.”

“Pevez didn’t like talking about the painting. He was sensitive and a few other people admitted to me that he used to be very successful many years ago. I don’t know what happened, but now he is just bitter and resentful.” 

I feel sick to my stomach and I need to leave this place right away. Not looking at anyone, I storm out of the workshop, wanting to get some fresh air, feeling bile rising in my mouth. I don’t need Ethan right now. I can’t look at him. This is too embarrassing. Is it possible that it’s my fault that my father became a shadow of himself, that he left his career for the family?

“Arwen, wait.”

He rushes after me and the lunch in my stomach keeps rumbling. I open the door, many doors, trying to find the way out. Finally my lungs inhale the fresh air and I throw up by the side of the house. I hear the footsteps behind me and soon someone is holding my hair away from my face. I keep throwing up until I am empty and dry heaving, thinking about my father’s hurtful words, about his raging temper. It seems like I never meant much to him. I was never good enough.

“Arwen, maybe I should take you to the hospital?”

“Is she all right?” asks the familiar French voice.

“We need a minute alone, please.”

When I stop, Alain is gone and it’s only me and Ethan. He passes me a tissue, looking worried. He shouldn’t care about me. I’m going to be fine.

“I’m sorry that you have to see me like this. I wasn’t expecting to hear all these things about my father, that he remarried and changed his name,” I mumble, feeling pathetic and shaken by this sudden discovery. I have to stop this nonsense; it’s nothing. It’s just some bits of information about the man that I once called Dad.

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have suggested this in the first place. You obviously weren’t ready.”

I smile. “No, I was ready to hear about him, but I wasn’t ready to find out that he had a new life. Anyway, I’m not sure what I was expecting.”

“I’m certain that Alain knows more, but he doesn’t trust us just yet.”

“I need my painting back, Ethan. I think that I’m ready to go,” I say, knowing that I’m closer than ever before, and maybe Ethan is right. There is a possibility that Alain is hiding the truth. When Ethan disappears inside the house, I breathe in, one small breath after the other.

Maybe he is right: maybe I’m not ready for this yet. I keep saying to myself that I’m strong and that the truth won’t affect me, but it’s bullshit. Dad has a new woman in his life, possibly more children. We were just a stopgap for him, like he never cared if his marriage survived or not. 

After ten minutes inside, Ethan walks back, holding my painting under his arm, all wrapped back up. 

“He claims that he doesn’t know where that man Pevez is. I don’t know. I think he might be telling us the truth,” Ethan says, sounding angry. “And he asked me if you have more paintings. He wants to buy them all. I told him that you wouldn’t be interested.”

A few teenagers are staring at us from the other side of the street and I don’t want to play pathetic anymore.

“Thank you, Ethan. You shouldn’t apologise, because this wasn’t your fault. I’m just too weak and emotional.”

“Arwen.”

“No, let me finish. I haven’t believed in myself or my abilities since I came to Brussels and I guess I was wrong. Obviously everyone thinks that my paintings are good. You want to open a business and I have something that you could sell.”

“You’re losing me, Arwen.”

“I’ll paint when I have spare time and I’ll give my art to you, so after you find the right property you could exhibit my paintings there.”

 “I’m not using your talent so I can make money. This isn’t about that, Arwen.”

“Ethan, you’re not using me, you’re helping me to develop as an artist. There are art dealers that work like agents. They represent the artists. I want you to represent me. Maybe this isn’t ideal, but it feels like the right thing to do.”

He looks at me for a really long time, probably thinking about my proposition. He is only starting out and he needs to sell in order to make a living. Antoine and now Alain—they are the veterans and they want to see more.

“Why didn’t you believe in yourself before?” he finally asks. I run my hand through my hair.

“I don’t know. I never had enough confidence,” I lie, knowing that I don’t really want to tell him that three years ago I was such a coward that I was ready to end everything, dive into the deep waters. We are close and I don’t want to lose him when he finds out how fucked up I really am.

“Your paintings are great, Arwen, and you have incredible talent. Let’s go to my apartment and talk this through over a cup of tea. How about that?”

“I would like that; I don’t want to go back to my empty room. Maja is still at uni, she has late classes today,” Arwen responds. My pulse is unsteady and I have to remember that I shouldn’t be touching her. We are friends and fantasising about her won’t change anything. I can’t get that image of her in the workshop out of my head. It’s crazy what my mind is projecting to me. That raw scene from earlier on leaves me hungry and frustrated.

“I was afraid that you would say no.”

“I love spending time with you, Ethan; you must know that,” she says quietly, and I force myself not to look at her because, I swear to God, I’m going to kiss her. I tighten my grip on the wheel and start the engine without saying anything. We don’t say a word to each other until we reach my street.

Arwen seems in a better mood, but I’m worried this whole hunt for her father will affect her mental well-being. I like her idea and I would be privileged to take her under my wing, because I don’t want anyone to take advantage of her talent. Alain wanted me to give him her number, but I refused.

Upstairs in my apartment, I make her tea, wondering if I’m ready to be committed to her professionally, without any desire.
 
  

“I’m going to be in the bathroom. I have vomit on my clothes. Do you think that I can borrow one of your shirts?” she asks standing in the doorway. She shouldn’t have said that, because my mind wanders off to my bedroom and I start imagining her naked.
Merde
, what the hell is wrong with me? I swallow hard, trying to keep a straight face, and say, “Sure.”

“Thank you, Ethan, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

She walks with me to the bedroom. I open my wardrobe and hand her one of my cotton shirts, dismissing the raw lust that burns me from inside. When Arwen finally locks herself in my bathroom, I circle around the kitchen five times and then make chamomile tea.

I put a bit of sugar into the cup and in the cupboard I find some biscuits. Right in front of me there is an unopened bottle of whiskey. I stare at it for several seconds before I put it back. I don’t need alcohol to keep away from Arwen. I pick up the tray with the tea and head back to the living room. Then I see her standing by the fireplace looking at my pictures. When she turns around I nearly drop the tray, raging inside, knowing that I should’ve had some alcohol. Underneath my shirt I can see her black bra and panties. Whiskey—I need to get back to the kitchen and drink some. Otherwise, this will end badly for both of us. I turn around and I’m just about to walk away when I hear her voice.

“Ethan, where are you going?” she asks.

I hate profanity and I’m not the kind of guy that uses obscene language, but right now I have to admit to myself that this is fucked up. The temperature around me shoots up. I walk back to the chair and the table, placing the tray with tea on it.

“Here is your tea, Arwen.”

My voice is raspy, unnatural, and when I look up, she is right in front of me. We’re only inches apart and my breath comes short. Her eyes are full of it—pure hot lust and hunger for more.

Arwen smiles, biting her lip seductively, and then my eyes move downwards, to her neck and then cleavage. She unbuttons my shirt, leaving enough to allow me to explore more. Her skin is white, perfect, but my eyes don’t stop there, no. I keep going, checking out her hips and legs, getting aroused with every single heartbeat. The pull is still there and I swallow hard, wanting to touch her, but knowing that I can’t.  

“You’re beautiful, Arwen, like an elf queen, no longer a princess,” I say, meeting her eyes, no longer able to hide what kind of wild storm is moving through me. Her hand is on my arm now, her fingers tracking my tensed muscles. It’s the touch that I’m not prepared for, the heat that needs to be released.

“Oh my God, Ethan, I want you so much. Why does this have to be so complicated?”

Her fingers are tracing the lines of my chest and every nerve responds, crushing whatever the hell defences I had been building up in the past few days. Touching … maybe I can deal with that, but nothing more. When she stops, I’m relieved, ready to take her home. It’s better for me if I don’t say a word.

Then Arwen does something more, something that demolishes my wall of resistance. She leans over and kisses my lips slowly, the way I like it. This is too much for me to handle. I grab her face gently and kiss her back. A sexy moan escapes her and that sound sends me somewhere else where there are no rules and regulations.

I slam her body closer to mine, pushing her down on the sofa, panting. I’m pressing myself over her warmth and I’m hard in an instant. Oh dear lord, she tastes sweet and I want to take her now, here on the floor. I dig my hand into her hair and we continue to explore each other’s mouths with frantic speed, as if there is no time left. My hands move down to her breasts and I’m ready to rip that shirt off, and for that matter, her underwear as well.

My lips move down to her neck; her sweet vanilla smell is like my new crack addiction. I feel high and ecstatic. She moans when I bite her gently, asking for more. Her hand moves down to my crotch, touching and playing with my hard manhood. Everything about her is perfect and pure. My breathing is harsh and I’m panting when my fingers graze her erect nipples. Sweat gathers on my brow as her lips kiss mine again. I’m going to lift her up and take her to my bedroom. Then I will make love to her all day long. 

“Ethan, stop. No. We have to stop this.”

I hear her voice, but I don’t want to stop doing these wonderful things to her. My self-control comes back and I open my eyes. Something snaps and I get off her and move a safe distance away. I realise that this fantasy has always been there and I don’t think I can ever get rid of it. She is somehow part of me and I will want her forever.